LYNCH Look up at the beauty of a fighter with no hope Cut smooth by a thick white wire in his throat Blackened by more than sunshine: fire's perfect roast Look how he swings higher than coastlines This is the result of being tightened by the rope He hangs like an ornament on Christmas trees The smell of human flesh thickens in the breeze Like strange fruit, with strange juice staining his frame They only cared that he was hung; didn’t care about his name Back & forth sways his body on the branch To the music in the wind, he does a solemn dance Thousands have invested in this brown country crop That’s harvested under a hot sun like cotton In the sweetest fields swings a body grown rotten; In the leaves flies the souls of thousands forgotten In the pages of history and the passage of time Shame on those who found disturbing glory in this crime Murdered by dirty hands, without a trial or case Hung on account of the hatred of his race Wish the occurrence of such a crime could be erased… Wish I could cut down every tree limb that harbored such disgrace.